Disguise, part 9a/?
anonymous
June 1 2011, 02:07:44 UTC
a/n definitely winding down here. I keep saying there's 3-4k more to go, but to be honest, I really don't know. As I write, things keep coming up, demanding explanation. So, while it's winding down, it may wind down with 5k or it may wind down with 10k. :) Also, seriously, all of you, thank you for the comments and the support. You've been so patient and so wonderful and I seriously want to buy you all a drink. ♥
~*~
December 1992
John sits with one leg crossed, bouncing his foot erratically, waiting. He's been sitting in the Director's office for fifteen minutes now; he's rather certain that Doctor Canterbury (Director of Medical Education) is making him wait on purpose.
Looking around, John examines the artwork: tastefully framed, well drawn, but medical shite nevertheless. Bones, muscles, freeways of blood vessels. He's always found the human body fascinating, even beautiful, but now it just annoys him.
He glances at the clock. Fuck. He's due for clinic duty and rounds in twenty minutes. John half hopes that Canterbury'll keep him too long and then he'll have a legitimate excuse for skipping.
On Canterbury's desk he can see his file. It's a lot thicker than it was, even two months ago when he had called John in to offer a bit of sympathy for Harry's alcohol poisoning that nearly cost her her life. The file is open to a page near the end. John squints, he can just make out some of it.
As of yesterday, John Watson has missed class six times since 22 November and is behind on three full assignments. He is in serious danger of failing.
He can see the signature of his supervising professor and frowns. Six classes? John scowls. He's sure it's been no more than four.
Just as he's considering flipping through his file to read more of the incriminating evidence, the door pushes open and Canterbury walks in. John stands up (politeness might do well for him here) and nods respectfully.
"Watson," he says, nodding at John to sit down and doing so himself.
"Sir."
Canterbury glances through John's file, presses his lips together and looks up at John. He pulls out a sheet of paper, turns it and slides it across the desk to John. Leaning forward, John can see it's a printout of his transcript. Two years, top marks, but with four classes in danger of failing this term.
This isn't news to him.
"Yes, sir?" he says.
"You can see it all here, son. You're a smart lad." John bristles at the endearment. He's nobody's son. He doesn't say a word.
Canterbury looks at him for a long moment, clearly waiting. "Watson. I've asked you in here so we can talk about your future here. A conversation is one in which both parties participate-- " he cuts himself off. John can see the anger in his eyes.
"What do you want me to say, sir? My marks are rubbish; I know it."
He shakes his head. "Watson -- what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No, sir."
"So, you're telling me that you've been a model student for two years, and now you're in danger of failing and yet you cannot give me a reason why?"
"No, sir."
"I'm not sure I believe you."
John swallows. "I don't ... have a good answer." That, at least, is the truth.
Canterbury's eyes soften. "Is it your sister?"
John bristles. "Harry has nothing to do with this."
Canterbury pauses for a long moment, looking John over, then presses his hands against the arms of his chair and stands, moving around the desk to lean against the front of it.
"You're a private person, Watson; I know this. I'm not going to make you tell me anything, nor am I going to pry into parts of your life that I'm sure are none of my business." He takes a breath. "I know a bit about your situation, about what you've faced in the past few years. I empathize, I do. But, Watson ..."
John's heart drops; he fears the worst. Usually, speeches like this end in really bad news that burn away a little part of his heart.
"I can only do so much. You've got a great mind; you're more than capable of doing this work. It's possible that you've just got a bit off track recently and you need a little hel-- that what you need is a new direction."
~*~
December 1992
John sits with one leg crossed, bouncing his foot erratically, waiting. He's been sitting in the Director's office for fifteen minutes now; he's rather certain that Doctor Canterbury (Director of Medical Education) is making him wait on purpose.
Looking around, John examines the artwork: tastefully framed, well drawn, but medical shite nevertheless. Bones, muscles, freeways of blood vessels. He's always found the human body fascinating, even beautiful, but now it just annoys him.
He glances at the clock. Fuck. He's due for clinic duty and rounds in twenty minutes. John half hopes that Canterbury'll keep him too long and then he'll have a legitimate excuse for skipping.
On Canterbury's desk he can see his file. It's a lot thicker than it was, even two months ago when he had called John in to offer a bit of sympathy for Harry's alcohol poisoning that nearly cost her her life. The file is open to a page near the end. John squints, he can just make out some of it.
As of yesterday, John Watson has missed class six times since 22 November and is behind on three full assignments. He is in serious danger of failing.
He can see the signature of his supervising professor and frowns. Six classes? John scowls. He's sure it's been no more than four.
Just as he's considering flipping through his file to read more of the incriminating evidence, the door pushes open and Canterbury walks in. John stands up (politeness might do well for him here) and nods respectfully.
"Watson," he says, nodding at John to sit down and doing so himself.
"Sir."
Canterbury glances through John's file, presses his lips together and looks up at John. He pulls out a sheet of paper, turns it and slides it across the desk to John. Leaning forward, John can see it's a printout of his transcript. Two years, top marks, but with four classes in danger of failing this term.
This isn't news to him.
"Yes, sir?" he says.
"You can see it all here, son. You're a smart lad." John bristles at the endearment. He's nobody's son. He doesn't say a word.
Canterbury looks at him for a long moment, clearly waiting. "Watson. I've asked you in here so we can talk about your future here. A conversation is one in which both parties participate-- " he cuts himself off. John can see the anger in his eyes.
"What do you want me to say, sir? My marks are rubbish; I know it."
He shakes his head. "Watson -- what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No, sir."
"So, you're telling me that you've been a model student for two years, and now you're in danger of failing and yet you cannot give me a reason why?"
"No, sir."
"I'm not sure I believe you."
John swallows. "I don't ... have a good answer." That, at least, is the truth.
Canterbury's eyes soften. "Is it your sister?"
John bristles. "Harry has nothing to do with this."
Canterbury pauses for a long moment, looking John over, then presses his hands against the arms of his chair and stands, moving around the desk to lean against the front of it.
"You're a private person, Watson; I know this. I'm not going to make you tell me anything, nor am I going to pry into parts of your life that I'm sure are none of my business." He takes a breath. "I know a bit about your situation, about what you've faced in the past few years. I empathize, I do. But, Watson ..."
John's heart drops; he fears the worst. Usually, speeches like this end in really bad news that burn away a little part of his heart.
"I can only do so much. You've got a great mind; you're more than capable of doing this work. It's possible that you've just got a bit off track recently and you need a little hel-- that what you need is a new direction."
Reply
Leave a comment